


Before you came the sunrise but not the sun

by lettertoelise



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine, Friendship, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 20:38:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9785129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettertoelise/pseuds/lettertoelise
Summary: **“In that book which is my memory, on the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life’.” - Dante Alighieri, Vita Nuova





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentines Day, Fede! I'm your FitzSimmons secret Valentine!!! I hope you like your gift!! Your prompt was so beautiful and I was so excited to be able to write for you!!
> 
> So so so many thanks to chinesebakery and AmandaRex for the beta and the encouragement. Your wisdom made this so much better than it would have been otherwise!!! 
> 
> Also a shout out to Wikipedia for helping me pretend like I know things about science (I don't).

_ Then _

  
  


“Freak.”

 

Fitz stopped in his tracks.  He knew that voice.  

 

He’d left school early - Mr. Cadwell had sent him off home with a pile of borrowed books and a mind so drowned in formulas, he hadn’t even seen anyone cross his path.  But that voice he’d know anywhere.  Martin Miller.  

 

Looking up, Fitz could see them now, Martin flanked by Joe and Freddie, his two squirrel-faced cronies.

 

“What do you want, Miller?”  Fitz spat, his voice steadier than he’d expected.  At least he sounded tougher than he felt.  Martin just smiled, and Fitz’s stomach rolled. 

 

“You think I didn’t know it was you?”  The boy taunted.  He was circling now, the two best friends watching with crossed arms and sour expressions.   

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”  His defense came out shaky and Fitz clutched the books closer to his chest.  He could see it now, the murder in their eyes.  Freddie had balled his hands to fists at his sides, Joe was all teeth.  He had to keep walking.  

 

It was Martin who caught him, latching onto his jacket before Fitz could sneak away.  “You think you’re smarter than us?  You think you’re better than us?”   

 

Freddie shoved Fitz from behind, the books in his arms sent tumbling into the dirt.  He hustled to collect them, mud staining the lines of his palms and working its way across his blazer.  They were laughing now and it sounded like thunder.  

At seven, Fitz barely came up to the older boy’s shoulder, which he’d quickly discovered was an advantageous height for ducking under arms and skirting bullies.  But Martin Miller, he was the worst.  It was never enough for him.  The teasing had evolved into public humiliation, jokes at Fitz’s expense, moronic pranks.  Soon he was pushing Fitz against the lockers, his sour breath fanning out over Fitz’s face as Freddie and Joe stomped on his lunch and tore up his notes.  It was like playing with fire.       

 

The hairline fracture he’d set in the back leg of Martin’s chair had been easy, the teacher hadn’t even questioned Fitz when he’d asked to stay behind to collect a few more results.  The next day when Martin had crossed his arms behind his head and tipped back, it had been perfectly timed.  The chair’s legs collapsed beneath him, spilling him to the floor.  The class had laughed.  It was a good moment.  

 

Fitz didn’t regret it, not even now with this pack of pink and pimpled halfwits looming over him.  They’d started throwing rocks, but he’d gathered almost all of the books by now, he just needed an opening.  Fitz turned, panting.     
  


“Mr. Campbell is coming!” Fitz shouted pointing over his shoulder.  Martin’s head snapped to the side.  It wasn’t until Fitz had started down the road, slipping beneath their grasp, that they started to shout.  It didn’t matter.  He might be small and he might be pasty, but Fitz was fast.       

 

He was barely in the door a minute before his mother started fretting, pulling at his sleeves and examining the dirt under his fingernails.  

 

“My goodness child, what have you done to yourself?”

 

Fitz removed his coat, handing it to her for inspection.  Mrs. Fitz was a dowdy woman, sturdy and about 80% bosom.  She had an eye for loose threads and ear for trouble and was regarding him now with careful deliberation, like a cat examining its prey.  

 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

 

“It’s nothing, mum,”  Fitz muttered, low.  He’d plopped himself into a chair by the table, conveniently close to an open box of crackers.  He lifted it and plunged his hand inside.  

 

“Right.  Isn’t it always nothing?  Just like last week you came home with a scrape on your elbow and a tear in your jacket.  That was nothing too?”  

 

Fitz nodded, guilty with crumbs escaping down his chin.  Mrs. Fitz raised a skeptical eyebrow.  She slid into the chair next to him, stopping his hand from another dive into the cracker box and curling her fingers between his.

 

“I’m not going to force it from you.”  She sighed.  “I know it’s been difficult since your dad died.  But you’re not alone, Leo.  We’ll always have each other.”

 

Fitz looked up at her, forcing a weak smile.  “I know, mum.  I promise it’s nothing.  Just friend stuff.  We were just palling around and I dropped my books, that’s all.  Please don’t worry.”

 

Mrs. Fitz’s hand came up to rest against the back of his head.  She nodded, offering him her own version of his weak smile.  But the worry never left her eyes.  

 

With a heavy breath she brought herself back to standing.  “Well, let’s get you a proper lunch then, shall we?”   

  
  


***

 

“What do you think, pink or green?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“For the decorations.  Jemma, are you even listening?”  Mrs. Simmons placed the ribbon down on the table and settled a hand on her hip.  

 

“Mum, I don’t need all this fanfare.  A small party with just you, Dad, and Patty will do.”  

 

A frown etched its way across Mrs. Simmons forehead.  “It’s your birthday,” she said, sighing.  “Let yourself have some fun.  Invite some friends.  We’ll make all your favorites.”

 

Jemma sighed, surveying the table littered with scraps of ribbon and magazine clippings.  It seemed unfair, how little she wanted this.    

 

Thing was, parties were always just so much work - like a conference but without all the interesting lectures.  Her mother would invite some of her teachers, her father would bring a few associates from work, even her younger sister Patty would have a playmate to run and shout with.  But who would be there for  _ her _ ?  Madeline, the lab partner who graciously allowed Jemma to do all the work on their group projects?  Amelia, who was more interested in gathering the phone numbers from boys than test results?  

 

Friends, seemed like a nice idea in concept, Jemma just simply didn’t have a use for them.          

 

“Mum - you, Dad, Patty - you are my favorites.  All I want is just a quiet meal with my family.”  Jemma paused, her smile wry, “I won’t even read at the table.”  

 

Mrs. Simmons chuckled at that, relaxing and pulling out a chair to sit on.  “Do you remember when you were little and we used to decorate for every holiday?  Snowflakes on the windows for Christmas?  Hearts hanging for Valentines?”  

 

Jemma’s smile grew fond.  “And Dad would pretend to be afraid of our Halloween spiders?”

 

“Or that time Patty got all wound up in the Christmas garland?”  Mrs. Simmons offered with a laugh.  There was a pause and she turned to look out the window.  “Oh, Jemma.  You’re growing up so fast, sometimes I’m afraid you’re missing it.”

 

Jemma shook her head.  “No, mum, I promise.”  

 

It was true, an accelerated school schedule left her reaching for more sophisticated academic goals, but Jemma wasn’t  _ missing _ anything.  She still had plenty of time for reading her favorite medical journals and conducting her own experiments in the lab her parents had set up in their garage.  Granted, it could be lonely, but she always had the stars to keep her company.  The chances she'd find  anyone who understood, who shared her interests, let alone someone her own age?  Jemma had given up years ago.    

 

Her hand found its way to a scrap of paper with a picture of a banner on it.   _ Happy Birthday _ , it read in large, red, handwritten letters.  

 

“Green,” she said suddenly and Mrs. Simmons looked up, confused.  “And we’ll hang the fairy lights around that doorway.”

 

“Jemma, wha-”

 

“There are a few girls from school who’ll come if I ask them, and we can even make a cake.”  

 

Mrs. Simmons was beaming now, her hand coming over to wrap itself around hers.  “That lemon-drizzle one you like?” 

 

“And some Chelsea Buns for Dad?” 

 

For her mother, she would try.

 

***

 

_ Now _

  
  


“We have some serious work to do.”  Fitz stood on the other side of the doorway, pizza in one hand and a bulging messenger bag draped across his chest. 

 

Jemma laughed as she opened the door wide, closing her eyes and breathing deep.  Angelo’s - her favorite.  

 

“I’ve been scanning my results for hours and I think my eyes might be permanently crossed,” she said,  taking the boxes and setting them down on the coffee table.  Her work was arced across the floor in a rainbow, books lining the edges and multi-colored Post-Its sprinkled on top.  

 

“Well, that’s why you need me.” His smile was wry, and he rested his bag on the floor, loosening his tie as he settled in by the couch.  It was his spot anyway, practically indented with his outline, and he sprawled out against the base, arms stretched out over the cushions.   

 

“Astrid was asking where you were,” Fitz called behind him as Jemma escaped to the kitchen for plates.  She could practically hear his smirk.

 

Jemma sighed, raising her voice over the clatter of cutlery.  “Did you tell her that I am not a wholesale retailer and that she has to start ordering her own supplies?  I lend her one hot plate and she’s like a squirrel, back every day looking for more.”    

 

She knows he can’t see it, but Fitz would appreciate her eye roll.  “And how was Dr. Murphy's lecture?” 

 

“Unenlightening.  Well, unless you were looking to promote correlation over causation.  His results on dendrotoxin were as prescient as an article for BBC Health.”  Jemma could hear him grumbling over the rustling of papers and she bit back her smile.  

 

Somehow the apartment always felt warmer with him in it.  His grumbles, his dry humor and sarcastic looks - and the kindness that lurked behind it all.  The smile he saved just for her, soft and shy, like a secret.    

 

It seemed contrary to his small frame, the way he managed to fill the space, how his body hummed with energy even when he was still.  It was almost as if the intensity of his mind was too great to be contained, escaping through the drumming of his fingers or the bounce in his knee.  And when he was gone, everything just felt empty.

 

Fitz was all set up by the time Jemma returned to the floor with plates and napkins, or so she assumed by the looks of his organized chaos.  His messenger bag had erupted with file folders and pens, one of which was perched at his bottom lip as he stared at the rug.  

 

“I’m wondering if a different substrate would have increased the rate of reaction,” Fitz was muttering, flipping through the notebook h e’d pulled into his lap.  

 

“You think I should try pyrimidine biosynthesis?”

 

“Well, OMP decarboxylase has been known to demonstrate extreme catalytic efficiency -”

 

“Not to mention it’s usefulness as a selection marker!  Fitz, that’s brilliant!”

 

Fitz looked up then, grinning wide and bright.  It was her favorite, when he was all overgrown curls and lopsided smiles, with eyes that held the ocean.  It almost made her forget she was kneeling beside him, frozen in thought with a slice of hawaiian pizza on a plate, half-way extended in his direction.    She nearly even jumped when he reached over to take it from her, his brow all drawn up in a question mark.  

 

“I’ll program the model and we can run through a couple simulations before tomorrow,” he offered through a mouth of pineapple.     

 

Jemma just nodded.  It was now or never.  “Dr. Weaver said they might be looking for someone at Stark Industries.”

 

“Did she?”  Fitz’s voice was even, his attention turning back to the pile of papers scattered on the floor in front of him.  

 

“Someone who specializes in aerospace engineering.” 

 

Fitz shrugged.  “We should tell Jackson.  I’m sure he’d jump at the opportunity to work with Stark’s brand of high level tech.”  

 

Jemma sighed.  He was hopeless  “Or you could jump at it first.  Fitz, they’d be lucky to have you.”  

 

Fitz didn’t look at her, in fact, he was actively  _ not _ looking at her as he set down his piece of pizza to reach for a book and flip through. 

“I’m happy right where I am, Simmons,” he said, dismissive.  

 

It was true and Jemma knew that.  She was happy too.  She looked around her apartment, at the poster of the cosmos Fitz had given her for her birthday last year and the corkboard filled with photo booth snapshots of the two of them, pulling faces and laughing.  Fitz, this friendship, sometimes it felt like cheating.  It wasn’t something she could keep.  It wouldn’t be fair.      

 

Stark Industries had state of the art lab facilities and world class scientists on staff.  SciOps could only furnish so many resources on the back of its government grants, yet at a private company? The possibilities for genius were immeasurable, unstoppable even.  But here he was,  Leopold Fitz and his mind full with a hundred brilliant ideas.  He was standing next to her, but he was standing still.

 

“Yeah, but we don’t want to work at SciOps forever, do we?  There are so many opportunities for minds like ours, Fitz.”

 

He nodded, but in that way of his, accompanied by a sigh like he’s agreeing but isn’t really committed.  It’s what he did right before falling silent, before he changed the subject and shut himself out.  He’d been doing that a lot lately, flickering on and off, pulling away.  And it made Jemma ache.      

 

“Never mind,” she retracted, looking for something safe.  “You think we should run a simulation using UMP synthase as well?”   

 

He bit his lip in a soft smile, coming back.  “Probably.  And Simmons?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You’ve got sauce on your chin.”

 

***

_ Then _

  
  
  


Today.   _ Today _ , Jemma was going to win over Leopold Fitz.  She slid into the booth opposite him, watching as his eyes widened and the tuna sandwich slackened in his hand.  She took a deep breath.

 

“Did you see the post?  We’re lab partners.”  Fitz hadn’t closed his mouth yet, and Jemma’s confidence wavered.  “Do you think Professor Vaughn put us together on purpose?  Seems odd, though.  Pairing your top two students.”

 

Fitz shrugged, his eyes escaping to the table.  “More like unfair.” 

 

Jemma deflated.  She was not sure what she’d been expecting.  Fitz had been surly and brusque since the moment she’d first met him.  He’d practically mastered pulling his shoulders forward and lifting his jacket up to his ears as she approached, like if he walked fast enough she might not see him.

 

She’d had such high hopes, too - there was something thrilling about not being the only prodigy at SHIELD Academy.  But Fitz, when he did speak, always managed to find that one hole in her argument, or expose the one variable she hadn’t considered.  Even so, an academic rivalry she was prepared for, but being ignored, she was not.

 

Jemma took a deep breath.  Perseverance and preparation, always good allies.    

 

“I was thinking we could get started this afternoon?  I’ve reserved a space in the lab.  I really enjoyed the insight on quantum entanglement you shared in class yesterday.  I’d love to see the model you mentioned - the one that imitates the particle acceleration?” 

 

But Fitz was peeking up at her from under his mop of curls, looking more surprised than anything.  “You would?”  

 

Jemma blinked, suddenly surprised right back.  “Of course.”

 

Was he smiling?  She couldn’t be sure.  He’d started working on his tuna sandwich again, just as silent as before but somehow he was sitting straighter, almost making eye contact.  And he even walked with her to the lab afterwards, listening as she described her favorite laboratory protocols and drawing a laugh with the occasional snide remark.  

 

It was almost as if they were friends.   

 

***

 

Jemma Simmons was stretched out on his bed, a pen braced between her teeth and her feet in the air.  Fitz imagined there might be a day where the sight of her didn’t make him double take in disbelief, but she looked up from her notes, her smile fond, and every word stuck in his throat.  

 

“Fitz, are you ok?  You look sick,” Jemma asked, swinging her legs around to place her feet on the floor.  He blinked.

 

“Yeah, no.  Just tired.”  He shook his head, clearing his throat.  “Are you making any sense out of these notes?”  

 

Jemma rolled her eyes.  “No.  Yours always look like some early human scribbled them on the inside of a cave wall.  That’s why I’m comparing them to mine.” 

 

He swallowed hard as she lowered herself down beside him on the floor, her binder perched on her lap.  

 

“Yeah, well not everyone shares your commitment to color-coding,” he grumbled.   

 

She nudged his shoulder and it was good, the way she raised her eyebrows at him with a soft laugh, the way her thigh was pressed up against his knee.  Her warmth and the scent of lavender.  Was friendship supposed to feel like drowning?

 

“I will defend my use of multicolored pens, thank you.  It helps me prioritize information,” she shot back, an eyebrow raised in mock defensiveness.  

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, P is for Pink is for Preternatural.”    Fitz’s head came back to rest against the wall, but he could see her out of the corner of his eye, flipping through her tables to compare with the ones she’d stolen off his lap.

 

He’d run out of steam an hour ago, as made evident by the doodles he’d left in the margins and Jemma had stopped in her shuffling to stare at the skeleton of a drone, sketched aimlessly in a corner.

 

“Fitz, what’s this about a drone that can smell?” she asked and he laughed.  

 

“That’s Sneezy,” he answered, straightening against the wall so he could point to the sensory panel he’d outlined in graphite.  “Theoretically he would detect and measure particulate in the air -”

 

“A bit like smelling.  I see,” Jemma finished, straightening her back against the wall.

 

“Exactly.  Except I’d need to develop a program to interpret the results, so I haven’t started working on the prototype yet.  Well, not officially.”

 

Jemma was beaming.  “Fitz, that’s brilliant.”  She’d begun making notations in the opposite corner.  “Of course, Sneezy would preserve a small sample for further analysis?”

 

Fitz just blinked.  He was still catching up.  How was he supposed to think when she was smiling like that?

 

But Jemma didn’t seem to notice, she was busy brushing his arm as she leaned over the drawings on his lap and throwing the scent of her shampoo in his face.  

 

“You know what?” Fitz interrupted, surprising himself.  “What if we took a break?  I’ve got a few episodes of Red Dwarf recorded.”

Jemma was still smiling, still pressed against him and she yawned, resting her head on his shoulder.  “That’s probably a good idea, Fitz.  Revisit Sneezy tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah.  First thing.”   

 

 ***

 

_ Now  _

  
  


Fitz startled at the touch of her fingers at his back and then relaxed as her hands came up to knead his shoulders.  It was like she’d opened a valve and his eyes slid shut as the breath escaped from his lungs.  

 

“Fitz, you’ve been at this for hours.  Come take a break,” Jemma said, her voice soft in his ear.  

  
Fitz let his pencil rest, gripping the table’s edge before turning to face her.  The lab was only half lit, bathing her face in its angular shadows.  Jemma Simmons and that smile, the one he’d memorized along with her freckles and the soft curve of her cheek.    

 

Could she see right through him?  

 

“It’s OK, Simmons.  You pack up.  I’ll be right along,” he answered but it came out sharp and she flinched.  For a moment, he thought she might say something, the way she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, but she just nodded and tilted her head, her smile thinning into something else, something fragile.     

It had been about a week since they’d laughed for real, like the weight on their chests was too heavy.  They were being careful.  

 

Fitz dragged a hand down his face, exhaling.  The numbers in front of him were all blurring together, twisting into nonsense.  That and he could hear Jemma across the lab and the sharp click of binders closing, of papers shuffling.  She would leave and someday she wouldn’t come back.  And it made Fitz ache.  

 

“Do you want me to lock up?”  Her voice brought him back.  She was standing by the door.  

 

“Jemma, wait.” 

 

Because what was his work without her?  Metal and plastic cobbled together?  A machine without a heart?

She was watching him with interest as he rubbed his sweaty palms together and opened his mouth for nothing to come out.  With her hair tied back like that, pulled into her tight ponytail, she looked like the girl he’d first met at Academy, the one that shone brighter than the sun.  She was watching him with that same keen interest, the same determination, the same kindness.  She had always been the brave one.  

 

“I’ll go.”

 

“What?”  She was staring now and he swallowed hard.

 

“I’ll join Agent Coulson’s team.  With you.  It’s what I want.”

 

He wasn’t sure what came next, a laugh or a sob, but Jemma’s eyes were suddenly overflowing with tears and she’d brought her hand to her mouth.  

 

“Are you certain?  You know it’s a mobile lab, 40,000 feet in the air?” 

 

He nodded.  “Yeah, didn’t miss that detail.  But it’ll be our lab.  Together.  Just how we want it.”  

 

Her arms were around him then, her wet cheek pressed against his shoulder and her body folded into his like it belonged there.  How could he have thought he wouldn’t follow her?  That she wasn’t the north star, pulling him forward?  Because when she pulled back to look at him, it was in her eyes he could see the sort of man he wanted to be.     

 

“We’ll tell Agent Weaver tomorrow, then?” she asked, breathless, and he nodded.

 

“First thing.”

  
  


_ The End  (or the beginning)  _


End file.
